Little Moments
by DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: Life is like rain - every raindrop is a moment in time, falling together to make a giant puddle of moments, rippling out and affecting other moments; and sometimes it's hard to see how they fit together at all, but equally it doesn't matter - what matters is that without those raindrops, you wouldn't be the puddle you are today. And we're 70% water. (Winterhawk Drabble Collection.)
1. Headcanon

**AN: **Just a load of Winterhawk drabbles prompted (or not) out of me on Tumblr that didn't fit into my Gently 'verse. Which means that this will go on indefinitely... ;-)

This chapter is all my random Winterhawk headcanons, for whatever universe, mostly unrelated. This chapter will be updated on its own, so check up on it from time to time ;-)

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Headcanon

**1. **_For a deaf!Clint Winterhawk universe._

Before Clint got hearing aids, Bucky used to sing around the apartment. He'd tell Clint how the others sometimes praised his voice, how he'd been encouraged to consider being a choirboy by one of the orphanage nuns back before the war, and Clint would secretly imagine Bucky singing to him. Then, when he finally does get the aids, he overhears Bucky singing in the kitchen; the first thing he says that morning is "You're a dirty liar, Barnes. And a dream-ruiner."

_(This is just one of my Winterhawk 'verses - in most of them, Bucky's singing is pretty good and no-one has a problem with it on the off-chance they ever hear him.)_

**2.**_ For a deaf!Clint Winterhawk 'verse again._

Sometimes, in the mornings, Bucky asks Clint if he'd like pancakes for breakfast - at least, he thinks he does. Clint decides not to tell him that he's got the gesture for 'pancake' wrong, because what he actually signs is much more amusing, and that's why he smiles whenever Bucky asks. Though he loves the pancakes, too.

_Sadly, I don't know ASL well enough to be able to say what Bucky actually signs… :-(_

**3.** Bucky and Clint have found the perfect way to wind Tony up. It starts over breakfast one morning, when in a moment of silence Bucky randomly says "One-hundred and seventy-eight" to Clint, who nods and carries on with his coffee. Tony asks what he means, but Bucky just shrugs and says "Nothing important," then leaves.

Later, as they're gathering for a movie night, Clint turns to Bucky and says "Two-hundred and three." Bucky scowls at him. Tony tries to ask what they're talking about again but Natasha glares at him because the movie's starting and he'd like to get through one screening with her unscathed.

This continues for weeks: Clint and Bucky randomly exchange numbers whenever they see each other, sometimes twice a day, and Tony cannot get a straight answer about it from them. "You're talking in code, aren't you?" he guesses. "That's what you assassin-spies do. What are you coding about? And does it involve me? It better not involve me. If it does you'll regret it, and then Steve'll try and make me regret making you two regret, and he might actually succeed and that's just too much regret." Bucky and Clint simply look at each other, raise an eyebrow, smirk, and say, "Nothing to do with you Stark."

"So it's a code - what for?" Of course, neither answers him, and he spends even more time trying to work out what they're up to. The numbers vary, but rarely exceed three digits. Sometimes Bucky gives the higher number, sometimes Clint. Sometimes one will say it in the morning, with the other replying later on, and sometimes they say them at the same time. Occasionally it happens on missions. Tony can't work it out (nor why no-one else seems bothered by it) but declares he won't rest until he finds out what Sniper One and Sniper Two are plotting. "Alright Pepper, I'll take naps, just for you and Steve. But between the naps I won't rest."

In reality, it's just their scores from target practise - or how many enemies they take out in a mission. It just amuses them to see Tony sweat. And there may be a few bucks riding on how long it takes the genius billionaire to figure it out.

**4. **_Winterhawk in a Hogwarts AU._

It's no secret, thanks to a certain frosty-natured Slytherin, that Clint Barton is a Muggle-born and not the best when it comes to spells and potions. He shouldn't let it get to him - after all, he has a great group of friends spanning all the houses who couldn't give a damn about his aptitude in class or his family background - but the spiteful word (that shall not be mentioned here) still rings loud after three years of having it thrown his way, and sometimes he needs a break from this world.

Nobody knows where Clint goes to skip lessons and human contact - nobody except one Bucky Barnes, who worked out that the Hufflepuff tower facing the school on the Quidditch pitch offered the best view of the grounds during their second year. When he finds Clint, he asks him for stories about growing up in a Muggle circus, and for however long Clint talks Bucky can't take his eyes off him; and if he had to give up a limb to make Clint's face light up the way they do when he rambles on like this, hands and arms helping describe every action and interaction mentioned, Bucky thinks he'd do it in a heartbeat.

And as easy as it is to take that back when you're scraping owl droppings from the Owlery floor because Filch went and snitched on you as you were sneaking back into the school, Bucky really does mean it. Clint tells him he's being idiotic instead of saying that nobody's ever expressed their love for him in such a way before. Not that he needs to: it's written on his face.


	2. It Wasn't Only A Kiss

It Wasn't Only A Kiss

It happened suddenly, without warning - the credits for 'Dog Cops' had just started to roll when Bucky turned to Clint and kissed him. Pulling back, he grinned as Clint blinked at him - confused, but hardly going to protest; not that Bucky gave him a chance. Before any processing could be done he was on him again, hands either side of Clint's neck as he repeatedly pressed kiss after kiss into the other's lips, sloppy and careless and through a barely-controlled smile. All Clint could do (all he wanted to do) was go along with it, even when he found himself sliding backwards until he was stretched out along the couch, Bucky's weight keeping him comfortably in place.

With a change in position came a change in pace, though - kisses that had started out messy and rushed gradually became slower, less-heated, and slightly deeper. There was almost a reverence to the way Bucky kept their lips together, as if he was savouring the feeling, trying to make it last. Gone was the playful smirk he'd worn minutes ago, now inappropriate for what was such a tender moment, and as he snaked his arm around the back of Bucky's neck Clint wondered what had brought all of this on. It happened from time to time, but it was only now that he was beginning to question why.

How long they lay there, fitted together like figures of a Greek statue, Clint would never know; but eventually, Bucky paused, resting their foreheads together, eyes closed. He appeared peaceful - but Clint felt the faint tightening of his eyebrows and the small crease that developed between them. Before Bucky asked in a hoarse whisper, "Why me?", he already had his answer.

"Because you deserve it. And I don't want anyone else."


	3. My Heart Is A Hollow Place

My Heart Is A Hollow Place

"Bucky," Clint gasped, trying to ignore the feel of lips working their way down his jaw. "Please."

Bucky stilled. If he hadn't been lying above him, Clint wouldn't have known he was there. Slowly, he pulled back to look him in the eye, a mixture of disappointment and resignation in his own. "Clint…"

"You really thought sex would distract me?" he panted. "Should know me better than that."

Nodding bitterly, Bucky slid off him, sitting on the other side of the bed. "You're not gonna quit asking, are you?"

Clint pushed himself up. "Not while I've still got you."

"And if you didn't have me?" he asked over his shoulder. "If it was a stranger, someone you'd never met before, would you ask them the same thing?"

"Do you want me to say yes to make you feel better?" Glowering, Bucky looked away, and Clint moved up against his back. "Come on, Buck," he whispered, ghosting his lips over a bare shoulder. "You know I've thought seriously about this. I wouldn't be asking if I didn't know I wanted it."

He could see when the corner of Bucky's mouth twisted in a grimace. "That's the thing," he mumbled. "Still don't know why you want it."

"Really?" Clint reached around to cup Bucky's jaw, turning his head until he could press their lips together. He could feel the moment Bucky softened against him, tilting his head minutely to get a better angle even though there wasn't much heat to the kiss. Keeping it going for as long as he could, Clint tried to commit it to memory: how Bucky's lips were faintly warm and moist, his body smooth and firm - almost like marble - against Clint's front, yet growing more pliable as the moment continued.

He had to breathe, though. Parting, he settled for nuzzling Bucky's cheek, feeling him sigh. "And my feelings on this don't count?"

Drawing back, Clint studied him carefully, his heart sinking a little at the sadness emanating from Bucky's eyes alone. "They do, Bucky," he said, "but all I want is to spend as much time with you as possible. You can't tell me you don't want that too."

"You'd be throwing away everything you've got here," Bucky snapped.

"All I've got is S.H.I.E.L.D," he argued back.

"But still, you think it'll be easy? Leaving behind one life for another? You have a choice here, Clint, a choice I never had -"

"And I'm choosing you. Bucky, please," he tried again, pressing even closer. "Yes, or no, that's all I'm asking for."

They sat staring into each others' eyes for a long time. Clint tried to be as still as Bucky, to keep his thumping heart quiet and his eyes clear, and eventually Bucky pushed against his shoulders, pressing him gently into the mattress. Clint shuddered as warm lips traced their way up from collarbone to jaw, lingering over his pulse point; and finally, as fangs grazed the shell of his ear, Bucky whispered his answer.


	4. Breaking Habits

**AN: **After catching Clint trying to steal from him, former soldier Bucky resolves to help him start anew outside of New York. He never expected to fall in love in the process.

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Breaking Habits

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Bucky said, pulling Clint's hand out of his pocket for the umpteenth time. "You don't have to steal from me - I want to help."

Yanking his wrist free, Clint scowled at the pavement. "Plenty others who've said that before," he muttered.

"And how many of them felt the same way I do about you?" He stepped closer, tipping Clint's chin up until they were eye to eye. "Look, I'm not asking you to trust me - not completely, anyway - rather that you… have a little faith."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "Faith?" he echoed.

Nodding, Bucky leaned in for a kiss, chaste but meaningful. "You want out of the city then I can do just that; but you gotta be a little patient."

Sighing, Clint mustered up a small smile. Bucky grinned back, giving his shoulder a squeeze before leaving him to buy food for the trip. Hands in his pockets, Clint clutched the thin metal dog tags he'd swiped after Bucky took him in the other night, thinking maybe he didn't need to sell them after all.

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**AN: **Prompt: "noir AU? Or barring that- Clint pickpocketing Bucky. "


	5. Seeing Is Believing

Seeing Is Believing

Clint hadn't expected to do much when he got home from an early movie night with Steve. He certainly hadn't expected to see Bucky waiting for him behind the front door, the words _Trust me?_ on his fingers. Slightly wary, he nodded, and the next thing he knew one hand was covering his eyes while the other pushed him forwards. His noise of protest appeared to have no effect, so he let himself be guided around until the hands were removed.

Blinking, Clint found himself in their room, a smart shirt and dark jeans laid out on the bed with a piece of paper. He turned to ask Bucky what was going on, but he'd been left alone.

The note by the clothes simply said: 'Please wear x', and with little else to do Clint complied, anticipation gradually overruling the initial suspicion he'd first felt. Once showered and changed, he dared to slip out of the bedroom.

The first thing he noticed was that Bucky had also changed, and was wearing the dark purple button shirt that Clint had bought him over smart black trousers; then he noticed the table, on which a homemade pizza was gently steaming, a candle to one side of it. He looked back to Bucky. _What's this?_ he asked as a grin crept on to his face.

Grinning back, Bucky stepped forward, slipping his arms around Clint's waist as he leant in for a sweet kiss. _Wanted to surprise you._

_You made me pizza?_

Looking sheepish, Bucky shook his head. _Hill did._

_Hill?_ Clint repeated, eyebrows shooting up.

He chuckled, nodding. _She said not to ask. Now come and eat._

The pizza was surprisingly good, and Clint realised Steve must have been in on this plan of Bucky's for him to have timed everything so perfectly - the sun was just setting over New York as they finished, and he reluctantly tore his eyes away from the sight when Bucky tapped the back of his hand. _Can I ask you something?_

_Yes._

Bucky raised his hands again, uncertainty tugging at the corners of his eyes. _I suck at speeches,_ he signed eventually, _especially in ASL so I think - _He stopped abruptly, saying something Clint didn't catch before one hand disappeared under the table. He produced a small box and pushed it towards Clint.

Heart suddenly in his throat, Clint opened it. A silver ring was inside, a simple five-pointed star etched onto the surface, and he jerked his head back up to see Bucky sign: _Will you marry me?_

He stared (for how long, he didn't know), slowly processing what was happening; then, with shaky hands, he signed the first response that had come to him; _Shouldn't you be on one knee?_

After a beat, Bucky rolled his eyes, smiling nonetheless as he slid out of his chair. Once in position, he asked again, _Will you marry me?_

And Clint, with probably the world's goofiest grin on his face, said "Yeah."

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**AN: **Prompt: "Bucky proposing to Clint with sign language."

(Bucky's ring is the same as Clint's, only instead of a star it has a tiny arrow, and it never comes off the chain his dog tags are also on.)


	6. In With The New

In With The New

"It's too hot."

Tipping his head sideways where he lay, Clint squinted at Bucky beside him. "Says the dude who practically spent centuries submerged -"

"I can still complain when it's too hot, asshole," he grumbled in response. He gestured to the towel draped over his left arm. "You don't have a hot plate attached to the side of your body anyway."

"Hmm, true," Clint conceded, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of the sun on his sandy toes. God bless Tony Stark and his billionaire, private beach-owning privileges. "Hey," he said after a minute, "I know something that'll help cool you down."

Bucky opened one eye to stare at him warily. "What?"

"A slushie."

The other eye opened, and he pushed himself up on his elbows. "A what?"

"Slushie. Stark has a machine in the beach house." Sitting up, Clint couldn't help his jaw dropping in realisation. "You mean no-one's introduced you to slushies yet?"

"No, they've not - what's a slushie, Clint?" Bucky asked as Clint jumped to his feet.

"You'll see!" he called over his shoulder. Watching him go, Bucky felt slightly apprehensive; the last modern-day item of food he'd been introduced to by Clint had been Poptarts, and once he'd put out the toaster fire and cleaned up the innards of one from between the panels of his metal arm, it hadn't tasted too bad (rather, it had tasted as nice as he could determine with a burnt tongue). If slushies were anything as troublesome, he was adding them to the 'Modern Foods to Avoid At All Cost' list.

Clint was next to him again in a few minutes, two cups of… slush, Bucky guessed, in his hands. He handed Bucky the red one, and though the cold sensation was undeniably pleasurable against his hand, Bucky was still unsure about the strange substance. "What's it made of?"

"Crushed ice and juice," Clint said, scooping a blob out with the oddly-shaped end of his straw. "Well, essentially, anyway. Go on, try it. It's strawberry flavoured."

Mimicking the action, Bucky took his first taste of strawberry slushie. "Mmh," he decided, nodding. It didn't taste too bad at all - nothing like real strawberries, of course, but the cold ice was greatly appreciated.

Grinning, Clint chuckled. "Told you," he chirped.

Rolling his eyes, Bucky settled back onto his blanket. "Yeah, well, when I'm still scraping dried up Poptart from my metalwork, I think I'm allowed to be cautious. Ah!" He jerked as a small mound of blue crushed ice landed heavily on his bare stomach, cold in the unpleasant way that comes with unexpected changes in temperature, and turned to glare at Clint.

Clint just smirked. "Oops," he said, a wicked glint in his eye as he leaned forward.

Bucky huffed, knowing it would be pointless to try and stop him. "Thought these were supposed to cool me down?" he muttered. Clint couldn't reply, his tongue being otherwise occupied.

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**AN: **Prompt: "summer heat and an introduction for bucky to slushies (or some kind of popsicle he didn't have way back when)"


	7. Go Your Own Way

_Loving you isn't the right thing to do_  
_How can I ever change things that I feel..._

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Go Your Own Way

"Why're you still here?" Bucky slurred, head lolling on his pillow as Clint brought in a glass of water.

"'Cause you're drunk, Bucky," he said simply. "Drunk enough for things to go badly if no-one's around to make sure they don't."

"Didn't ask f'r it," Bucky grunted.

"Knew you wouldn't."

"Right. 'Cause you love me." Clint froze, and Bucky waved his hand around above his head. "'S alright, Tasha told me. Or was it Stark?"

It would be Stark - Natasha had sworn to keep that knowledge secret, even if she disapproved. Regaining his composure, Clint cleared his throat, moving to leave Bucky to much-needed sleep. "Water's on the side. I'll be in the living room if you need me."

"You shouldn't, y'know."

Stopping mid-step, he turned back. "Shouldn't what?" Bucky moved his head away, and Clint found himself going to the side of his bed again. "Bucky - I shouldn't what?"

Startlingly clear eyes met his, and Bucky's next words held no trace of slurring in them. "Love me."

Clint couldn't help it - he frowned. Crouching down so that they were eye-level, he softly asked, "Why not?"

"Because," Bucky began, rolling slowly into a seated position on the edge of the mattress, "you've got a normal body, mad bow skills, awesome apartment block, and, and a dog… that likes pizza." He looked up, the corners of his mouth pulled down in sorrow. "Why would you want someone like me to come in and ruin all that?"

As the silence came down thick and heavy between them, Clint played the last sentence back again and read between the lines. Swallowing, he reached out and laid his hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Because someone like you would fit right in to my car-crash of a life," he said, smiling gently. "The real question is, why won't you let me bring you into it?"

Shrugging, Bucky hung his head, attention on his hands, loosely lying in his lap. "Guess I've gotten used to being alone these days," he mumbled.

That wasn't just it, but it was the most that was being admitted to at this moment in time. Moving his hand to the side of Bucky's neck, Clint leant up to kiss him, mildly shocked at how strong the taste of whiskey was on his lips. When they parted, he pressed their foreheads together, and whispered: "You don't have to be anymore."

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**AN: **Prompt: "Winterhawk, Go Your Own Way by Fleetwood Mac"


	8. The Power of Breakfast

The Power of Breakfast

It was the smell that woke him up. Coaxing him from slumber, through dazed half-awareness and finally into bleary-eyed basic functioning, the sweet scent of food curled up into Clint's nose and teamed up with Curiosity to get him out of bed. He noticed belatedly that Bucky was nowhere to be seen, and as he fumbled with the cords on his sweatpants he finally thought to put two and two together. Forgoing a t-shirt (at the behest of his rumbling stomach), Clint went to investigate.

Lucky didn't come to greet him like he normally did when Clint made an appearance in the morning. Instead, he was already positioned by the stove, eye fixed resolutely on a boxer-clad Bucky, who in turn was focused on whatever was in the pan in front of him. As Clint shuffled towards the kitchen area, he looked up and grinned. "Morning, hawkass."

"Mornin', granddad," Clint grunted in response. Scratching Lucky behind the ears (the gesture was lost on the food-obsessed mutt) he tried to get a peek at what Bucky was frying, but instead found himself being steered towards the table.

"Sit first," Bucky instructed, pushing him into a chair even as Clint complained about being manhandled. "You can start helping yourself - gimme a sec to plate up."

That was when Clint saw what was on the table. It looked like something you'd expect to see in a high-star hotel: various fruits, separate plates of sausage and bacon, toast, assorted toppings for said toast, a pile of fried eggs, a bowl of beans, even tater tots - and Bucky had still been cooking when Clint walked in. "What's all this for?" he asked, blinking as a plate of fresh pancakes was placed in front of him from behind.

"Thought I'd make you breakfast." Bucky rested his forearms on Clint's shoulders, leaning down to press the sides of their faces together. "Happy anniversary," he murmured.

Clint moved slightly to look at him. "Really?"

Smiling, he nodded. "One year today." When Clint didn't say anything he laughed and went for a kiss. "Now come on - I didn't slave away over all of this for you to let it go cold."

As Bucky took his own seat at the table, Clint grinned at him lewdly. "You know, I suck at cooking too much to be able to pay you back in kind."

Slipping Lucky a strip of bacon (and that dog looked far too happy at that - probably thought his adamant staring had paid off rather than Bucky having a weakness for small, hungry beings), Bucky snorted. "Damn right."

"I can suck at something else instead, if you know what I mean."

He raised his eyebrows. "After breakfast?"

Clint winked. "After breakfast."

After breakfast, Clint couldn't move an inch.

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**AN: **Prompt: "Bucky making Clint breakfast on their anniversary."


	9. Your Mornings Are My Mornings

Your Mornings Are My Mornings

Their mornings normally play out something like this:

Bucky wakes up first. He has no qualms about letting Clint know that he is up - sometimes does it on purpose - but there's little he can say that makes Clint actually get his ass moving too. So while Bucky showers, shaves, and sorts out his hair into something the ladies would love (it's a personal challenge of his to style it in a way that makes Darcy stare, clearly imagining what it would be like to run her hands through it; the longer she stares, the more points for him), Clint stays drooling into his pillow until something forces him out - hunger, a pillow too wet to comfortably sleep on, Lucky's nose in his face, or Bucky slipping very far under the covers to give him an excuse to shower besides "You smell like a bed".

Infrequently, their mornings go like this:

Clint wakes up naturally to an empty, made-up bed. Everything's quiet. Lucky is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Bucky. Scrubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Clint gets out of bed, puts on pants and leaves the bedroom. Lucky will come to him then, padding silently, tail wagging not as hard as it has been known to, and Clint scratches him absently behind the ear because his focus is on the couch - on Bucky on the couch. On Bucky, who is hunched over in pyjama pants and Clint's purple sweater, eyes open and unseeing, hair mussed and dishevelled. And Clint takes Lucky's lead, silently going over and settling himself next to Bucky and waiting until he's sought out. It could be a hand slipping into his, a subtle shift that presses them both together from shoulder to elbow to hip to knee to ankle, or a face burying itself in the crook of his neck as hands clutch too tightly at his sides. Either way, it's just a case of waiting until Bucky shakes off whatever is haunting him (and sometimes he asks - jokingly, utterly serious - "How do you do it? How come it isn't you who ends up like this?") and then the pancakes are brought out.

Whatever happens, they have their routine - not routines, because that implies their mornings are separate events - and both of them like it just fine.

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**AN: **This is for pariahsdream, who drew a wonderful Brokeback Winterhawk in response to my sleep-addled plea and the great little piece that inspired this.


	10. As Real as Fear and Death

As Real as Fear and Death

"Hey," Bucky gasps, letting his head fall back to hit the wall. Clint still has his between his hands, panting into the ground, and Bucky reaches out to grasp his shoulder. "Come on, we gotta go -"

"That was Bobbi!" Clint shouts, slapping his hand away. In the gloom, Bucky can just make out the shining of unshed tears. "That was Bobbi, and you just - she - we could've -"

"Done what?" He doesn't snap, just states the truth: "That wasn't Bobbi, Clint, anymore than it was Wu or Quartermain. I was doing her a kindness."

Clint looks like he wants to disagree, but Bucky waits until his anger dissipates in a harsh "Fuck…", his gaze directed back to the ground. As much as he wants to let Clint grieve for their friend (as much as he wants to do so himself), he needs to get them moving.

"Steve said they were going to New York," he says, hauling Clint up from behind the broken wall. "If we're quick, we could probably still find them."

After a beat, Clint shrugs. "There any point?" he asks dully. "What if they've all been… turned as well?"

Though entertaining the thought is hardly pleasant, he can't deny it hasn't already crossed his mind. Bucky steps into Clint's space, resting his hand at the base of his neck and his forehead against Clint's temple. "Then you might have to take out Steve for me," he murmurs.

Clint nods. "What about Natasha?"

"Maybe we could flip a coin." It's not funny, not really, but Clint chuckles hollowly anyway and angles his head so they can share a brief kiss. "Come on. We need to go." One glance is spared for Bobbi, now truly at peace, and then they're off into the night, with no idea what awaits them or even if they'll make it themselves.

It's a dead world, a living nightmare, and not even Bucky's worst dreams have spited him like this. Oh, sure, he's been plagued with the idea of his victims coming back to life, shambling towards him with gushing wounds and rotting flesh, expressions of permanent horror or pain directed at him, but this he never thought possible. He doesn't know what happened, how Washington DC ended up reduced to deserted streets that reek of death, boarded-up homes, and corpses, dead and 'alive', littering the city. All he knows is that this attack was bad enough to wipe out most of S.H.I.E.L.D, to send the Avengers running, and that he needs to get Clint (at least) to safety.

Once they're too exhausted to run they duck into the first building that isn't completely impenetrable - a clothes store of some sort - and tuck themselves into one of the offices at the back. They board the windows, barricade the door, and hunker down together with some coats they nabbed on their way inside. Sleeping lightly goes unspoken between them – and yet…

_Bucky is running, because the other option is to not run, and that means he'll be killed unless he kills first and for some reason he can't let either happen – no killing, just running. If he focuses on running, he doesn't have to worry about what's chasing him. Which is what, exactly? Oh, right, of course – it's that thing that looks like Clint, that thing that was Clint, and the minute his eyes settle on it over his shoulder he stops running, feels his feet turn to lead at the ends of his legs; and part of him has time to wonder: how? Clint isn't Wu, or Quartermain, but then neither was Bobbi, and before he can think any more he has to defend himself because at some point he fell and now the Clint-thing is coming and his instinct kicks in at the last minute. It drops on top of him, and suddenly he's wrestling with it, knife in hand, and for a dead thing it's strong, almost as agile as – and he's determined, now, to do the kind thing, because Clint would want him to live, and even as it starts shouting his name, even as his vision blurs, he knows he'll follow through on –_

"Bucky, please!"

Bucky blinks. He blinks some more, and the road they were fighting on morphs into a wooden floor; the thing he'd pinned under him starts to look properly alive again, properly like Clint, and there's fear in his eyes, and the knife feels very solid in his hand, and his other hand is pressed too tightly against Clint's throat.

He recoils immediately, backing away until he bumps into the wall and falls onto his knees. In the distance Clint is coughing, barely audible over the sound of his own blood in his ears, and he doesn't really see when Clint drops down in front of him and pulls him in, pressing Bucky's head against his shoulder and pressing kisses into his hair, against his ear, to his cheek; "I'm alright," he says, low and raw, as the tears start to spill out. "I'm here, I'm alive, it's me, we're okay, Bucky, we're okay…"

"Promise me," Bucky chokes out later, when he can breathe enough to speak and his eyes are simultaneously wet and gritty.

"Promise you what?"

"Don't – don't make me go on alone." Clint moves, and Bucky raises his head. Hands cup his face, thumbs wiping away long-dried tear tracks, and Clint nods.

"Promise," he whispers. "You too?" Bucky returns the gesture, body sagging as his eyes flutter closed, and Clint leans forward to kiss him, firm, but with a tenderness that he hopes conveys just how much he intends to keep that promise. If part of his mind vaguely thinks that he wouldn't mind kissing Bucky as his last act, another part decides that he'll tell him only if necessary.

Back under the coats, they hold each other as close as possible, and think not of death or what they now know comes after.

* * *

**AN: **In response to this post: "Someone should write me a feelsy Clint/Bucky or Clint/Loki since I can't write and I need feels…. maybe a zombie au those are nice… just a thought".


	11. Sickly Sweet

Sickly Sweet

"How long did Bruce and Hank say this'd last?"

On the opposite bed, Bucky sneezed harshly, sniffing before mumbling "Five days," his metal arm thrown across his eyes.

Clint groaned, his stomach rolling. "Five days stuck in quarantine? Really?" He was already going stir-crazy, and they'd only been in here for… "How long's it been already?"

"Three hours."

"Great."

"Stark did tell you not to explode the globby green thing."

"No, he said that he wouldn't if he were me." Bucky's laugh was interrupted by another forceful sneeze, and as he dropped his head back on his pillows with a mournful sigh, Clint turned to look at him. "Hey."

"Hm?"

"Least we got five days of more-or-less uninterrupted time together."

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. "We're both gross, ill, and cranky. Five days together doesn't sound as good in that light."

"Yeah, well there's no-one I'd rather be gross, ill and cranky with."

He opened his eyes, locking gazes with Clint across the small distance between them. Sure, they were both beaten down by some God-knows-what illness, feeling like the inside of a toilet and hardly looking any better, but there was some blessing in the fact that it was just the two of them (Bucky briefly imagined being quarantined with Stark, which suddenly made things seem a whole lot better). He and Clint hadn't had much time alone recently, so maybe now - between puking and sneezing - they could finally catch up. So despite feeling like crap, Bucky grinned, and replied with: "You say the sweetest things, kid."

Clint chuckled at the sarcasm. "Shut up, gramps," he groused; and as Bucky was taken over by another deafening bout of sneezing, he found himself reaching for the metal bowl left by his bedside. Oh yeah - five days of this was going to be swell.

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**AN: **Prompt: "have you done a fic where both of them are sick at the same time yet? Because if not… that :)"


	12. Tryapka

**AN: **Here, have some sickly sweet, possibly totally OOC Winterhawk fluff. Why? There is no need for reason here. All I will say is: Bucky's hair, fingers in Bucky's hair, and cuddling. Also, sorry for Google's Russian.

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Tryapka

If there was anything Clint could trade for more of these moments, he was pretty sure he'd do it without a second thought. Sat on his trusty sofa, he grinned down at Bucky's head in his lap, watching in delight as the deadly assassin melted under his touch - and all he was doing was running his fingers through thick brown hair, lightly massaging Bucky's head as he did so. The result was that Bucky suddenly became almost cat-like in his appreciation of the gesture, sighing deeply in satisfaction, eyes closed, an easy smile on his lips.

"You're enjoying this, huh?" Clint chuckled.

"Zatknis', chert Pal'tsy," he mumbled, shifting over onto his other side. He snuggled closer, simultaneously nuzzling up against Clint's stomach and leaning into his touch, smile never wavering.

Keeping up the affection, Clint regarded him fondly, the warm press at his abdomen spreading through his chest. "What's brought all this on?" he asked softly.

"Reasons," Bucky sighed.

"Such as?"

"Love you."

It's as good a reason as any, Clint figures, and he moves his free arm to rest across Bucky's waist. "Yeah, and I love you too, you big softie."

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**AN: **According to Google Translate: Tryapka = Softie; "Zatknis', chert Pal'tsy" = "Shut up, Devil Fingers".


	13. Gears of the Heart

**AN: **Winterhawk Steampunk AU - ex-circus performer Clint Barton finds himself part of the crew of _Liberty_, a renegade airship out to make a difference in the world, whether that includes fostering Russian fugitives or stealing dangerous gems out from under a shadow government's nose.

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Gears of the Heart

"You know, sometimes I think you love the engine more than you love me."

Rubbing his eyes under his goggles, Bucky turned in time to see Clint drop down into the engine room. With a smirk, he pulled them off. "And that's a bad thing? If I didn't love the beating heart of our beloved ship, she wouldn't stay in the sky, and thus there probably wouldn't be a you to love as a result."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Such a sweet talker. And people ask me how I ended up on this airship." Bucky just chuckled. Stepping forward, Clint wiped his thumb over an oil streak near his hairline. "How come you never end up covered in this stuff? It's always just a streak here, or a smudge there."

"Special talent," Bucky said, resting his arms round Clint's waist. "Less is more, they say."

"More what?" He shrugged. Snorting, Clint shook his head. "You're ridiculous."

"But you wouldn't want me any other way."

"Well, maybe a little cleaner."

"Is that a not-so-subtle hint?"

"Nope." To prove the point, he kissed Bucky right there, the purr of _Liberty_'s engine surrounding them as they both closed their eyes. Clint found himself getting hot quickly, thanks in part to the already high temperature of the room and Bucky himself, who had managed to untuck Clint's shirt from his trousers and slipped his fingers - five flesh, five metal - beneath the material. In turn, Clint had one hand in Bucky's hair (barely bothered by the sweaty strands) and the other at the small of his back, encouraging him closer -

"Ow - ow, fuck!" Bucky pulled away sharply, face contorting as he grasped his left shoulder.

"What's wrong?" Clint frowned as Bucky slid down the side of the engine, tugging one-handed at the collar of his shirt.

"Gears are caught," he grunted, gingerly pulling the material over his head and down the motionless limb. "Get my toolbox?"

Placing it on his right, Clint sat down beside him, watching as Bucky proceeded to unscrew a panel on his shoulder. "You sure you should be doing this unsupervised?" he couldn't help but ask. Despite the look Bucky threw him, he continued: "I mean, what if you break something or hurt yourself further? Stark and Cap'll bitch at you if you do."

Lifting the panel away exposed the neatly tangled network of thin rods and cogs that enabled the arm to function, the peak of Stark technology, rehashed from shoddy Russian engineering, and yet still failing - more frequently, if you asked Clint. "Quit worrying," Bucky muttered, adjusting his hold on the screwdriver and sticking it inside. "I've done this be- ah! - before, it's just a - case of realigning… Ow, shit!" He paused, eyes shut tight, breathing hard.

Feeling helpless, Clint squeezed his hip lightly. "Anything I can do?"

To his surprise, Bucky nodded. "Look inside," he instructed. "Tell me if I've got the right one."

"How will I know?" he asked as he switched positions.

"One'll look out of place. Stuck in the muscle." Bucky took a deep breath. "I can't work out which one."

Angling his head, Clint could indeed see the troublesome piece (and fuck, those gears actually looked like they had dried blood on them), and carefully guided Bucky's hand so he could push it back into place. There was a soft 'click' and Bucky groaned in relief, sagging against the metal wall. "Jesus, Buck," Clint murmured, wiping a bead of sweat from Bucky's forehead. "We gotta get this sorted out."

"I know," Bucky sighed, already fixing the covering back onto his shoulder. "Why else d'you think we're looking for Vision?"

"Wait, what?" Clint helped him to his feet. "I thought it was a social call? Steve kept mentioning Jim and Toro, Namor even -"

"Stark thinks that he can make it better with Vision's help," Bucky explained. "Steve's using the trip as an excuse to call on the others. He thinks Falsworth won't mind being the host."

"Oh." Bucky pulled his shirt back on slowly, and Clint searched for indicators as to how much pain he was in. "So, I guess I'll have to be a little more gentle in bed, huh?"

Bucky snorted, the pain in his eyes subsiding a little. "Like hell you will! I'm not some wind-up tin soldier, Clint." Softly, he added, "Not anymore."

"Of course you're not." Already missing the cocky smirk and playful glint that were just so Bucky Barnes, Clint kissed him again, his thumb stroking the line of Bucky's jaw, neither of them moving until it felt natural to pull apart. Their noses brushed, and Bucky smiled - not in the way that made Clint's heart damn-near burst with love, but he still grinned back anyway. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"You think Joey'll be up for a rematch?"

"I think Falsworth'll kill you both if you touch his precious Ford again." Clint laughed, and Bucky smacked his shoulder, managing not to wince at his own muscle's protests. "Come on, I want that shower now."

Clint scooped up the goggles, tossing them over so Bucky could drop them in his toolbox. "Alright. But it Natasha's used up all the hot water again, you're on your own."

"How do you know I want to share?"

"Because you love me, and as I implied earlier, you've spent far too much time with noisy engines than -"

"My equally noisy bed warmer?"

"Hey - I object to that. I'm not a 'bed warmer'."

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**AN: **Feel free to find me on Tumblr and drop an ask for a drabble prompt! :D


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